Alright, once upon a time I bemoaned the state of my motivation (and my draft folder), got called out, and voila! The fruits of my labour because fear of a deadline and shame won out in the end:
Draft the first
‘She knows how to solve this problem. She knows how to give him a little sliver of peace. But even the thought of the surefire solution still turns her stomach…’
meta-fic (?? is that a thing?? it is now) on post-Underworld discussions, memories new and old, trust issues, and dream catchers.
⚓ Captain Swan, Emma and Milah friendship, mentions of Millian
Draft the second
‘A despot and a rebel do not easy allies make.’
A fix-it fic exploring a route I wish OQ would have taken.
⚓ Outlaw Queen
Draft the third
‘But from that point on, the anger never really goes away, because he’s twelve years old and he knows that his life is not his own.’
Really unhappy backstory spawned by a post-5.15 conversation about why Killian might have started drinking in the first place. So like consider yourself warned.
⚓ Jones brothers; descriptions of physical abuse, slavery
There we are, cupcakes! I am officially not a Poo Poo Head Procrastinator™. Woo! And just because I did say it should be a meme (and I’m totally taking the easy way out re:tagging bc one of you has already mentioned that this might be something you’re doing :D), I tag @mossandmushroom bc turn about and all that and @mryddinwilt because see above :D And actually, fuck it, I tag anyone who liked my original post bc I see you @daxx04 @shinysherlock @carmibelievesinlove @lillpon @zylinbiatheseeker and @pluckinghoursfromthesky (but also omg pls feel free to ignore the fuck out of this! I’m just messing, but it was kind of fun!)
Post three unfinished original drafts (or however else you store your wee wips) in 48 hours or else you’re a Poo Poo Head Procrastinator™! <3 <3 xoxo
I love Ginny Weasley. Favorite HP character besides Hermione, hands down. But it’s hard finding good quality fic about her that doesn’t reduce her to a prop or have her primary focus be her relationships. Anyway, I wrote this bc I went to Harry Potter world and got to go inside Ollivander’s shop and had some thoughts about ‘what if Ginny were to be apprenticed to a wand maker’.
It is in no way related to the fact that I bought a Ginny Weasley wand replica.
“I won’t have it Arthur! Not in my house!”
“We have to, Molly!”
Ginny could hear her parents whispering in the bedroom below hers. There are places where water damage has warped the wood enough that sound can slip through the weak dampening and silencing charms in the floorboards. Usually all she can hear is a dull murmur, or the low rumble of her father’s snoring in the night (and sometimes she can hear her mum and dad rowing when they think everyone is asleep), but Mum’s hissed anger streams clear and loud into Ginny’s darkened room.
“Come, Molly. Do we have to talk about this now?” Dad sounds absolutely exhausted. On top of the fact that it’s—Ginny checks the time—2 in the morning, Dad’s had a rough time a work lately.
“No we don’t—we’ll be a laughing stock Arthur! No one’s apprenticed a child in Wizarding Britain since Hogwarts was founded!” Mum’s voice was taking on that squeaky high tone that meant she was fighting back tears.
“I know, Molly. But we have to choose—Fred and George are going to Hogwarts next year and we can’t afford their books or robes or, bloody hell Molly! We can’t even get them wands!”
Ginny frowned, curling up tighter beneath her bed covers, pressing her head into her lumpy pillow. She felt physically sick—talking about money and finances made her feel like she was going to vomit. She could still remember the way Nancy Jenson, the girl she’d been friends with in Muggle primary, had spat the word poor at her like it was a curse. That word had rattled inside of her chest and her stomach like a physical blow. She had begged her Mum to take her out the very next day.
There was something about the word that made her bones ache.
“Then I’ll go. I’ll-I’ll… I’ll get a job!” Mum said, almost triumphant.
“And what? Leave Ron and Ginny by themselves? We can’t afford a babysitter, not for a whole day everyday.”
“The Lovegoods—“
“Marina Lovegood just blew herself up and nearly collapsed their house on her husband and little girl. They’re not an option, Molly.” Dad said in that grim tone of voice that meant he was deciding something. “And Xenophilius isn’t the same anymore. You know that.”
“B-but—Ollivanders? Why not Flourish and Blotts? Or, or… Madam Malkin!” Mum’s voice was getting desperate sounding and edgy.
“I know dear.” Dad’s voice was patient and even again. “But Ollivander is the only one traditional enough to accept one of the old apprenticeships.”
“How will you ever get him to take one of the boys on?”
“That’s just it. I talked to him the other day, called in a few favors from Dumbledore and a man in the Licenses and Administrations department. He… he doesn’t want one of the boys.”
“No.” Mum’s voice was quiet and calm. “No, Arthur.”
“Molly—“
“I said no Arthur.” Mum’s voice was dangerously low. So low, in fact, that Ginny nearly fell out of bed trying to listen in on her parent’s conversation. “I’m not having my little girl holed up all day with an old wizard in a dark, filthy shop. Heaven knows why he wants Ginny-“
Ginny gasped at the sound of her name, and clamped a hand over her own mouth. It had sounded so loud in the quiet of the night, and she was sure that her parents had heard her as easily as she’d heard them. After a few breathless seconds, her parents began talking again and she could relax.
“Because she’s the seventh daughter of a seventh son, Molly.” Dad said. “Everyone knows there are some… prerequisites to the old ways.”
“The ‘old ways’,” Mum spat. “are what let scum like Malfoy get away with murder. That let He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named rise to power. If I put any stock in the old ways, I wouldn’t have married you, Arthur.” At this her voice broke. “I spent so long trying to get away from that life—you know that. I won’t subject her to that; she’s my baby.”
“I know, love.” Dad muttered, his voice getting quieter. “Dumbledore said he’d try and enchant a modified contract for us—a few ‘modernizing touches’ he said.”
“I just want her to be happy.” Mum said, in a tone of voice Ginny recognized. Mum only used it when she was too tired to fight or yell.
Went through a Frozen/How to Train Your Dragon crossover phase where I crack!shipped Astrid/Elsa. Man that was a wild time.
The first time Astrid kisses her, it when she’s high in the clouds on Astrid’s dragon. There is no one but her and Astrid for miles in any direction, and it’s a different kind of isolation than the one that Elsa’s used to. She’s used to the quiet of steps on floorboards all alone by herself in the dark, or the whistle of wind through the spaces and gaps in her ice palace on the top of the world. This… this is a different kind of alone.
“It’s beautiful up here.” Elsa said quietly. They’re over the clouds, higher than even the high mountains in the distance.
“Yes.” Astrid said. Her voice is strange, stilted even.
“Astrid, what’s wrong?” Elsa places a hand on Astrid’s arm, and Astrid shudders a little.
“It’s nothing.” The Viking sniffs. “Just the wind in my eyes, they’re watering a little. It’s-“
“Nothing, I know.” Elsa frowned. “Are you sure you’re alright? You’ve been acting strangely for the past few days.”
“It’s just—“ Astrid pounds her hand into her thigh, frustration evident on her face. “I’m not good at-at- this.” She gestured vaguely between them.
“You just gestured to all of me.” Elsa said archly.
“It’s because you’re the problem!” Astrid blurted, and then flushed when she realized how that sounded. “I mean, not problem really-“
“I see. I would like to go home now.” Elsa can feel the frost growing over the backs of her hands and needs to get off this dragon. Now.
“No, it’s not- that’s not what I meant!” Astrid said desperately. This isn’t going at all like she though it would. “Ugh, I’m such an idiot. I told you I’m not good at this.”
“What is ‘this’, exactly?” Elsa’s tone was chilly.
“It’s- oh, fuck it-“ And Astrid kissed her.
It was awkward, because they were both facing forwards with Astrid sitting in front and Elsa taking backseat. Astrid had to half twist out of the saddle to turn enough to get her lips close to Elsa’s. Even then, she half missed, kissing the corner of her mouth instead.
Astrid pulled away almost as quickly as she’d kissed, flushed and embarrassed from the tips of her ears to where the skin of her neck disappeared into the back of her tunic. She whirled around, resolutely facing forward.
Wrote this halfway in to Legend of Korra Book 2 after Korra lost her memories for 5 seconds. Kind of darker, I guess.
It’s been a year and she still doesn’t remember. Her name (Who is Avatar Korra?) tastes foreign in her mouth and she still feels like it doesn’t quite fit across her broad shoulders. She feels empty—like a piece of paper ready for an author’s hand but left blank.
She read the papers of Republic City (definition: the capital of a coalition of cities that formed the United Republic) and the exploits of Avatar Korra and the Equalists (definition: radical anti-bending group led by the terrorist known as Amon). The single journal that Avatar Korra kept for a measley two months during her training at the south pole is almost too much to read. Names, dates, places that Korra has never heard of are dropped so casually. Emotions, tied to a particular guard here, or anger directed at her instructor here; Avatar Korra was full of life and emotions. In comparison, Korra feels like an empty shell.
What’s worse is that, if anything Korra is a better Avatar than Avatar Korra ever was. The recklessness that had made Avatar Korra such a wildcard is nonexistent in Korra; she can’t remember the years of isolation or loneliness. Korra is an Avatar unencumbered by emotional attachment or sympathetic memory. She is very efficient at her job.
The Water Tribe Civil War ends abruptly when Korra intervenes. She does it brutally and finally, sinking warships in the harbor like children’s toys. It only takes six or so lost with all hands before Unalaq agrees to withdraw his troops. Korra knows intellectually that this man is her uncle, but she feels nothing but wariness around him; which is just as well because when he tries to assassinate her, she’s ready.
A crossover based on an ask, where Tamika Flynn from Welcome to Night Vale went on a field trip to Silas and Danny is her unfortunate chaperone.
It’s made very obvious that Tamika Flynn was going to have to be separated from the group. Two hours into the overnight school trip to Styria University and she’d already tried to rile her fellow middle schoolers into cleansing the Silas library, lead a student protest about censorship in the Silas Oracle, and challenge one of the Summer Society group guides to a duel.
Why that made Danny the perfect person to foist her off on, she had no idea.
"What am I supposed to do with her?" she’d whispered, glaring. All she’d received was a shrug and a gentle push off towards the dorms; "Ask your girlfriends. Just- just keep her away from the others."
So here Danny was, 7th grader a few steps behind, heading toward the dorms. It was only a minute or so walk, but the silence made Danny itch.
"So- uh, I’m Danny."
"I know," the girl said solemnly. "You’re wearing a name tag."
"Right."
"Ooh, I like her." Carmilla’s trademark drawl sounded from behind them, and Danny wanted to both swear, and shout for joy. She didn’t need Carmilla making some little girl cry and then Danny getting the flak for it. But this little girl was a little too intimidating to stay 1-on-1 for long.
"Why are you out so late?" Danny asked, eyebrow raised. It was about 7am, right before the sun crested the mountains and flooded the campus with sunlight. Carmilla was usually in bed by 5.
"Meeting some friends from the Night Vale entourage." Carmilla shrugged, falling into step with Danny. She looked down. "Though it looks like you’ve got yourself you own little tagalong."
Danny mumbled something under her breath (probably something like ‘useless vampire’) before ushering the both of them into the freshman dorm hall.
"Ignore her." Carmilla said, smirking. She looked down at Tamika, who looked as unfazed as she did when Carmilla showed up. "Red has some control issues she still needs to work out."
This is based on the premise that the Baker died instead of the Baker’s Wife.
"If you two were to get married, would that make Cinderella the Baker’s Wife?" Jack asked once, out of the blue during dinner.
Cinderella choked on her soup, coughing and sputtering. Red gave her a few helpful thumps on the back until she could breathe again.
"Perfect time as usual, idiot." Red snarked, but she too looked curiously from the Baker’s Wife to Cinderella.
"T-that’s- that’s very inappropriate conversation for the dinner table!" The Baker’s Wife stuttered, her face flushing the same color as her hair.
"Well, it’s true isn’t it?" Jack pressed. "I mean, the Baker passed, so you’re not his wife anymore right? You’re just the baker, is all. Or Emily, I guess." He scrunched up his nose; like most children, he felt uncomfortable referring to an adult by their first name. It was weird.
"Jack." Cinderella said, glaring. There was an unspoken rule; you did not mention the Baker.
"I saw you kissing out by the shed last week.” Red said, looking smug. “And the tailor’s son said the bakery closed at midday yesterday after Jack and I went into the woods to gather the cranberries you asked for.” Her expression was sly. “You know, if you’d wanted us out of the house so you could have sex you could have just asked-”
"Enough!" Emily said, her voice sudden and loud. "We are not having this conversation." Henry, startled by the loud noise, started crying from his crib. Emily rose and went to him, picking him up and cooing nonsense words. She took him and walked to their bedroom and closed the door gently but firmly behind her.
"You know better." Cinderella said. Her voice wasn’t angry, or enraged, but disappointed.
Somehow that was worse.
"We don’t try to replace your mothers." Cinderella continued, holding Red and Jack’s gazes one after another. "We don’t, because we can’t. We don’t ask you to call us Mother; it would feel like forgetting."
"But we do call you mother, sometimes." Jack said. His eyes were wide and earnest.
"It’s a different kind of love, Jack." Cinderella said. "And it’s a different sort of hurt."
"I was not a particularly good wife." Emily said when Cinderella slipped into their room. "It stands to reason that I would not be a particularly good widow either."
